who knows if the moon's a balloon,coming out of a keen city in the sky--filled with pretty people? ( and if you and I should get into it,if they should take me and take you into their balloon, why then we'd go up higher with all the pretty people than houses and steeples and clouds: go sailing away and away sailing into a keen city which nobody's ever visited,where always it's Spring)and everyone's in love and flowers pick themselves

our can'ts were born to happen our mosts have died in more

And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart I carry your heart [ i carry it in my heart ]

who pays any attention to the syntax of things will never wholly kiss you

I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing than to teach ten thousand stars how not to dance.

since feelings come first, who cares about the syntax of things?

The Artist is no other than he who unlearns what he has learned, in order to know himself.